Pastoral
Ifit were only still!—With far away the shrillCrying of a cock;Or the shaken bellFrom a cow’s throatMoving through the bushes;Or the soft shockOf wizened apples fallingFrom an old treeIn a forgotten orchardUpon the hilly rock!Oh, grey hill,Where the grazing herdLicks the purple blossom,Crops the spiky weed!Oh, stony pasture,Where the tall mulleinStands up so sturdyOn its little seed!
Ifit were only still!—With far away the shrillCrying of a cock;Or the shaken bellFrom a cow’s throatMoving through the bushes;Or the soft shockOf wizened apples fallingFrom an old treeIn a forgotten orchardUpon the hilly rock!Oh, grey hill,Where the grazing herdLicks the purple blossom,Crops the spiky weed!Oh, stony pasture,Where the tall mulleinStands up so sturdyOn its little seed!
Ifit were only still!—With far away the shrillCrying of a cock;Or the shaken bellFrom a cow’s throatMoving through the bushes;Or the soft shockOf wizened apples fallingFrom an old treeIn a forgotten orchardUpon the hilly rock!
Oh, grey hill,Where the grazing herdLicks the purple blossom,Crops the spiky weed!Oh, stony pasture,Where the tall mulleinStands up so sturdyOn its little seed!